Playing With Lightning
by Zayz
Summary: LJ. Lily attempts to "do the right thing" but of course this never works out the way she planned. James Potter is furious. Let the fireworks begin. T for a couple of naughty words sprinkled in.


A/N: This was a piece I started a few weeks ago, but I could never really get into it. Then one night, it was raining out, and I was marveling over it, when I found this document. Needless to say, I started to write, but what I wrote was pretty much crap and I wasn't sure what to do with it. Still, I finished it, and now I'm nervously posting it up here for your approval, I hope.

Takes place Year 5.

And a huge thank-you to _TancredTorssonLover_ for betaing this for me!

--

**Playing with Lightning  
By: Zayz**

--

_So jump in my car, we'll go 100 round the bends  
We'll take this road until we're back at the start yet again  
So jump in my car, we'll go 100 round the bends  
And we'll pretend that feeling rage is feeling real  
Feeling rage is feeling real_

_But feeling rage is not feeling real_

- Missy Higgins, 100 Round the Bends

--

For several minutes now, I have been sitting on the good armchair by the window, watching the twilight break across the empty canvas of the unearthly-blue sky. The atmosphere – separated from me by but a mere sheet of moderately filthy glass – is calm and clean, because it's March and the grass has finally started growing properly again.

But in here, it's warm and boisterous, and I am using it as a sanctuary to hide for these few minutes, until the hurricane I'm waiting for comes to pass.

And sure enough, I hear the thunder crackling on the horizon, just past the portrait hole.

I brace myself for the inevitable sparks to fly.

_Bang_! The portrait slams open and at once, my inner radar detects a stormy figure stomping in, all clouds and murk and angst emanating in a five mile radius.

Yes, there he is. Right on time.

James Potter is absolutely and irretrievably pissed.

Ignoring all of the startled Gryffindors in the common room, he shouts at me and me alone, "Evans, what the _fuck _was that about?"

All heads turn to look at me. At the sight of the raw, pungent anger stamped all over his face, my heart races just a little faster, but I hold my ground. I keep my cool.

"Keep your voice down, Potter," I say in a careful monotone. "There are other people in here too, you know, and they don't need—"

"Don't you tell me what no one needs, Evans," James cuts me off sharply. "I mean, you and your big mouth and that enormous stick up your arse are responsible for a lot of _shit _around here and I'm _not _about to sit here and take lectures from you."

Everyone goes silent. I can practically hear their collective thought-bubble: _Oh no, here we go. Another verbal Potter-Evans brawl._ I pretend that his words don't hurt and wrinkle my nose ever so slightly at him, making sure he knows he displeases me.

"That's mighty rich of you," I say coolly, because I know that irks him endlessly. "Wasn't it you that groped my breast and professed your undying love for me while I was on a date, or am I getting you confused with someone else?"

"Just because I like you, doesn't mean I can't get royally irritated with you," he shoots back at me, his words cutting like an arrow streaking through the air. "Doesn't mean I can't tell you that you were bloody out of line."

"How was I out of line?" I ask, a steel edge on my voice now.

By this point, he has walked over to my chair, his sneakers caked in goodness-knows-what, his robes freely excreting sweat and mud on the clean carpet. His breaths come out short and heavy, his body quivering ever so slightly like some unstable weapon and I have to look up to take in his face and everything in it.

From the expression on his face, I can see that regardless of the offence, I have gone a considerable distance from his line of acceptable behavior with my conduct. The corner of my mouth pulls to a smirk. James has to fight – hard – to keep from clobbering me right here and now, in front of our watching crowd.

"You told McGonagall that I gave Axelrod a moose head yesterday during Transfiguration," he informs me through gritted teeth.

"I admitted as much," I own up.

"We have a crucial match coming up this Saturday," he continues in the same tone.

"And that's just fine," I say. "I'm sure your team has sufficient skill to get through this without you. They were picked to play for a reason."

"I have to play," he says. "It's as simple as that. And you told on me."

"What are we, eight?" I demand. "I didn't _tell on you_. McGonagall merely asked me if I knew anything about the incident and I told her the truth – that it was you. Are you seriously going to stand here and tell me off because I did the right thing?"

"No," he says, "because you didn't do the right thing. I didn't give him the fucking moose head. Edwards behind me did it; but because I was in front of him and he's such a _pansy _all the time, everyone assumed that _I'd _done it. And because of you and your _honesty_, _I _have to be the one missing my Quidditch game. And McGonagall won't bloody believe me! Why don't you bother to check your facts first before pinning me as the criminal?"

His tone is so accusatory, all smashes and hail and gritty dust being swirled into my eyes at high speeds. I've rarely ever seen him this furious; but, oddly, I'm not afraid of him. His anger – although it makes me quiver just a little bit, my heart going slightly faster than usual – actually makes me calmer because I am determined to be more controlled than he is.

And, for now, I am, despite his allegations.

"Edwards didn't do it," I say. "I asked him afterwards. And I saw your wand move."

"Of course he's going to bloody _lie_, and you know it!" he protests, storm clouds crackling in his irises. "And as for my wand, I was casting a charm to make Snivelly's ingredients slippery when he tried to pick them up. You could even ask him!"

"I'm not going to do that," I tell him.

"Clearly, because it's much easier to let _me_ take the blame for something I didn't even do." He gives me such a heated look that my gut constricts the tiniest bit at the sight of it. I narrow my eyes at him, at his tone, at everything about his filthy countenance; and without consciously deciding to do it, I find myself standing up.

"I did what I thought was right," I say, a steel edge to these words. "More than I could say for you, anyway."

"Oh, and what is that supposed to mean?" he inquires.

I can feel the tension tighten between us; because even if James isn't yelling anymore, that doesn't mean either of us is backing down. Not even close. The rest of the room falls away, all the Gryffindors with open mouths fall away, leaving just him in my line of vision, and my hands go right to my hips.

"Maybe if you weren't such a _dolt _all the time, better things would happen to you," I say.

"Oh, _I'm _the dolt?" He releases a bark of a laugh that doesn't sound like him at all. "Wow…now _that's_ rich."

"Yes, you bloody are!" I say. "I mean, that date—"

"So I acted a little stupid," he interrupts. "But guess what? I'm _human_. And I'm _male_. Human males tend to do stupid things. Weren't you the one who taught me that?"

"You don't bloody grope someone's breast while they are on a date with someone else!" I explode. "You don't bloody challenge said date to an arm-wrestling match! That's elementary knowledge, Potter – even _you _should know it."

"So this is like payback, or something, because I ruined your date?" he asks. "You think you can meddle in my Quidditch life and that will make everything fine?"

"That did have a factor in it, but no, that was not my intention," I say. "I told McGonagall about Axelrod because—"

"Because you thought it was the _right thing to do_," he finishes for me scathingly, putting special emphasis on the last four words. "Yeah. I got that part. But what did you think she'd do? It's my sixth offense in her class in two months."

"I…thought she'd give you detention," I admit. "Which you fully well deserve, by the way." And then, because I know he'll hate it, I add, "Dolt."

He doesn't respond. He's too furious to respond. Wild, erratic blotches of red color his face and I can practically feel the emotion emanating from his body. He's beyond livid, but he's so _alive_. This is what I do to him, with only a few well-chosen words. To be honest, that's kind of amazing – I can acknowledge that even as I'm watching his tempest pick up, feeling mine building with it.

He opens his mouth to speak, to shout perhaps, and I fully expect him to give me a hot-blooded retort. I expect him to call me a name, or tell me that I am the dolt in this situation, or something similar.

But he doesn't.

With a flash of something I can't explain, he asks, "Does this give you a sick sort of thrill, or something?"

"Excuse me?" I arch an eyebrow. My heart rate is speeding up, racing through my veins as he looks me straight in the eye, unwavering and so intense I almost want to look away.

"This…this game you play with me," he says. His voice is strange – it's strained and it rings in my ears, but something intuitive tells me he is actually talking at a normal volume now. "This thing we do where we rile each other up, get each other angry. Does it interest you? Does it _excite _you?"

"No," I say automatically. "I'm not playing a game."

"Oh, don't go kidding me like that," he says scornfully. "I know how you are, Evans. This is what you do. You piss people off for the thrill of the argument, for that feeling in your gut where you know this is wrong but you go ahead and do it anyway. You thrive on that. You piss people off because you want to know if they can handle it or not."

As he speaks, my gut does indeed constrict with that sick sense of exhilaration and pleasure, my face and everything about me warm, too warm. I can feel the anger and hate, pungent and sticky and copious, excreting itself through my pores like sweat. I can feel the slow, simmering burn and I know how this goes.

He's challenging me too, by bringing the knowledge of the game, our game, the one I know exists, out in the open. He's reacting to my reaction to his own idiocy, trying to see how _I _handle it. He doesn't think I can. He's the one trying to piss me off this time.

Well, regardless of what people say, I don't back down in the face of a hurling, whirling hurricane. I go right out to meet it.

And so my hands dig into my hips and it feels like the thunder reverberates through my body as I arch my eyebrow and say, "Is that what you think, Potter?"

"It is what I think," he says, smooth like rich chocolate, the cloud cover not yet vanquished from his irises. "I mean, what else could it be? Why else would you face off with me like this all the time, every time, if you didn't like the way it made you feel?"

Flames lick my insides. I am impatient; annoyed; aching to have a go at him, rip his hair out, do something to calm the heat. Electricity sizzles between us, hot and ready, and the tension is taut, set to snap.

"Or," I suggest, "maybe you are the one who enjoys doing this."

"Oh?"

"Yes," I say. "If you didn't go around trying to piss me off, ruin my dates, pursue me to the point of harassment, I wouldn't have to react. I wouldn't have to get angry. But you like to taunt me and see me when I'm riled up, because you get some sort of perverse, sadistic pleasure out of ruining a girl's day—"

"Yeah, because you're all innocent and justified in your anger," he practically hisses at me. The winds are picking up now – he is all rain and storms again, full of theatrics, while I am lightning, drowning the sky in light. "You were in the wrong here and you know it. You got me out of my Quidditch match and now, to add insult to injury, you are here and pursuing this conversation, getting your fix."

"My fix of what, exactly?" I fire back.

"This!" he all but explodes. "You lead a boring life at school here, Evans. You do your work and you do it well; you are popular and indulge in the usual gossip; you throw fits and charm people and your life is empty! No one here can catch up to you, because you're untouchable, you're way too good for _any _of them. But you and me? We're different. You and me are destined to do bigger things than pass on who's having an affair with who behind the greenhouses. You and me get our kicks and our highs from _this_, from bantering, from another person who isn't afraid to challenge us."

"You're out of your mind," I snap. "You have absolutely _no_ idea what the _fuck _you are talking about, and you think you're _so _bloody important—"

"And I am, aren't I?" he interrupts. "I _am _bloody important, because I'm the _only _one who makes you feel this way and you love that. You love feeling this way. It makes you feel like you're doing something right, like you're finally pushing on your limits as a human being, because your heart is going so fast and you want to rage and storm and be someone you don't think you are. You and me, we can do that. We can handle this. And that's why we do this to each other – why you did it to me right now."

"You seem to know a lot about 'my' emotions," I retort. "Is it because you feel the same way about me?"

"Of course I do," he says. "That's why I like you, why I keep chasing after you. Because you give me the next high, the next dose of something so much bigger than the two of us. But you know what, Evans?"

He comes really close to me, close enough that I can count every single green fleck in his hazel eyes. Our breath intermingles in the space between us, the musky smell of dirt and young man that rolls off his flesh pervading through my nostrils. I narrow my eyes at him and he makes his point:

"This, this isn't feeling real. So the next time you try to 'do the right thing' and get your revenge on me to get a reaction out of me, try doing something that actually merits real sparks. Because this little dance we just performed, this is nothing. Nothing at all."

And with that, he storms away, leaving mud in his wake as he goes up to his dormitory to change.

Breathing heavily, I am left in the common room, with all these people staring at me. It's pin-drop silent. I just hear the wild beat of my own heart, my own breaths, short and erratic, coming from my throat. I realize I'm shaking. People are watching me.

It takes almost everything I have, but I clear my throat and retreat back to my corner, where I had been sitting before this nightmare of a conversation. I sit down once more and attempt to calm my racing heart.

This is what I get for standing outside and meeting a storm – I can get hit by lightning, struck absolutely dumb.

--

In the morning, I make a quick stop before running down to breakfast. My eye opened much earlier than usual today. I eat with Alice, Marlene, Mary, and a few other girls that populate our usual corner of the Gryffindor table. Mary is telling a wonderful joke and we are all having a hearty laugh over it, when I feel a tap on my shoulder and all my friends appear to take a collective breath. I turn around and I see James Potter there, perfectly calm now, waiting for me.

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"I need a word," he says.

I give him a long, appraising look, but he doesn't object. He looks back at me. Then I sigh, and say, "Fine."

I rise from my table and follow him to the back of the Hall, where it is a little quieter and we may have a private conversation in peace. A few people turn their heads with interest as we pass by, because everybody knows that bad things happen when we talk. I try my best to ignore them.

"McGonagall's just been to see me," he says. "Five minutes ago."

"Really?" I blink a couple of times. "Erm…great?"

"It is great," he says. He's got a bit of a glow about him now, one he can't restrain even if he feigns quiet self-assurance around me. It fills me with a secret sort of pleasure to note that about him.

"It is?"

"Yes," he says. "McGonagall says I can play on Saturday and she's sorry about banning me."

"Oh," I say. "Well, that is great news. That's really nice of her."

"I asked her why she was letting me off the hook," James continues. "She says she was acting on a confidential tip-off."

I shrug. "Okay…so what?"

"So," he says, "I wanted to thank you." He smiles a brilliant smile at me. "Now we can whoop the Slytherins properly on the pitch."

I nod, absorbing this information and this mood of his, so different from the typhoon I was given last night. We are silent for a few moments, standing there awkwardly, our eyes averted.

I am the one to break the silence and say, "Congratulations. I hope you kick arse in the match."

His smile turns lazy, a half-grin, and he replies, "I'll do my best."

I nod again, and then leave. Just like that. I have a breakfast to eat, friends to talk to, and a life to live. I am done there and I have no intention of looking back.

But once I get to my table, I glance at our spotand see that he is still standing there, stretching his arms and rumpling his hair. His smile is as brilliant as before.

This is another thing I do to him. I smirk to myself.

Maybe I like that.

--

A/N: Reviews make everyone happy, so be sure to visit the review button before you leave. And when you state your position, please be gentle. I'm still not sure I like this one.


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